


what's on your mind

by bevcrushers (dothraloki)



Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 20:30:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12218397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dothraloki/pseuds/bevcrushers
Summary: “Told you I'd be back for breakfast,” comes the trademark Ace drawl before the Rimmer's familiar nasal voice rings out. “Oh sod it, yes it's me.”“Goal-post Head?” the Cat stares between Lister and Rimmer. “I thought he – you - were dead?”“I lied,” Rimmer says bluntly. “Look do you think we could talk about this later? It's just that it's a very long story and I've just dodged three smegging simulant warships to get here.”





	what's on your mind

**Author's Note:**

> Rimmer and Lister's developing relationship

i

The question comes out of nowhere.

One minute they're lying on their bunkbeads in the darkness. Neither of them are asleep - Lister's leg bounces incessantly on the bed above, his breathing hasn't transitioned into that earthquake inducing snore just yet. Rimmer's mind is abuzz on the impassioned case he's planning on making in the morning, for re-organizising the stock and implementing new safety procedures on the decks below. Of course he’s fully anticipating resistance, which is why he’s also thinking about where he can hide Lister’s guitar – _just in case._

Then Lister voice comes sharp, a sudden non-sequitor through contented silence. "Rimmer, do you think you'd ever go with a guy?"

Rimmer opens his eyes abruptly. "No! Why do you ask? "

Lister scoffs. "Calm down. I was just wonderin' that's all."

Rimmer rolls onto his side. He can see Lister's shadow cast against the far wall, playing idly with his dreads.  "Where's all this coming from?"

"I was watchin' a film in the cinema, earlier with the Cat,"  he says.

Rimmer snorts. "Oh yeah? What kind of film? Is this you coming out, Listy?"

"Don't be daft, man," says Lister.

The rooms grows quiet again - an awkward, sort of uncomfortable quietness. Rimmer lets it stretch on for a few seconds before his curiosity gets the best of him. "Well then?"

"Well what?"

"Would you - with another man?"

The bedsprings above shift as Lister sits up. "Maybe,” his tone is thoughtful. “I never really gave it much though meself, but I like to think I'm an enlightened guy -  never say never, and all that."

"So you're batting for the other team now, that's what you're telling me?" says Rimmer.

"Forge' it Rimmer," Lister's accent grows thicker, a telling sign he's falling asleep. "Like having a conversation with a brick wall."

The snore starts a couple of seconds later.

 

ii

He doesn't forget, though.

Sometimes he catches himself looking at Lister. Not in an odd way, mind – just occasionally, when he's talking to the Cat or Kryten, or piloting, or mending consoles in the drive room. He can, he supposes, if he squints a bit, sort of see the appeal; Lister is relentlessly optimistic, sociable, charismatic - although Rimmer can’t say he’s ever experienced that personally - to some people, he thinks, that must be somewhat appealing.

Not that he matters anymore now. Sometimes he wonders how Lister copes; how he gets up and puts his smeggy shirts, and faces each day knowing that the universe is essentially a void, empty shell. It doesn't really bother Rimmer - being dead already of course – but Lister?

Some people would be impressed by his tenacity, the fact that he hadn’t yet collapsed beneath the weight of the hopelessness and futility of their everyday reality. To Rimmer it's nothing more than self-delusion and willful naivety. Though, he has to admit, there’s something strangely admirable about it. It almost reminds him of all those books he used to read on military history. When the battle looked like it'd been won, how easy it would be to throw in the towel, call it a day – Rimmer knows he would've have, had done in the past, but the best wars were fought on the brink of loss, and everybody loves an underdog.

That was Lister.

Stupid, naive, inanely optimistic Lister.

iii

Lister doesn't realise anything's wrong until he's in the shower.

The day had started ordinarily enough. He'd stirred around midday, had himself a coffee and a cigarette as he listened to the Cat chatter on and on about his new new fur-lined silver coat until Rimmer had wandered in half an hour later yawning and trying to flatten his bedhead.

“Mornin' smeghead,” Lister had said as Rimmer took his place at the table, stirring his own coffee.

“Morning,” Rimmer replied, barely bristling at the epithet. “Cat.”

They'd sat around for another half an hour idly arguing about something trivial and ridiculous until Rimmer decided it was time to start the day and slunk down the cargo decks to start inventory.

“What was that all about?” said Cat, as the door slid shut behind Rimmer.

 Lister frowned. “What was what?”

“You and Old Goal-Post Head.”

Confusion had clouded over him. “Me and Rimmer? What about us?”

“You're,” the Cat paused, looking vaguely disgusted. “You're friends now. When did that happen?”

“Friends?” Lister echoed. He glanced in the direction of the door and shrugged. “I wouldn't say friends exactly. ”

“Well, that's what it looked like to me, bud,” Cat stood up to leave. “You know, I'll never understand you apes.”

He doesn't grasp the Cat's meaning for another full ten minutes – then it hits him abruptly just as he’s shampooing his locs, and he stands there blankly, staring at the wall of the shower. What Cat had meant is that they had become impossibly, strangely domestic. He hadn't had an argument with the Rimmer– a proper, explosive, vicious, way-over-the-line argument, the sort that plagued his first year out of stasis   - in months. The ones he did have had no heat and no bite. They were mild arguments that fell more under the umbrella of 'banter' than 'barney'.

Naturally, once he's started noticing it, he can't stop.

Rimmer's insults carry no punch, Lister's threats are empty. Somewhere along the line Rimmer had packed in all that “superior officer” smeg and stopped threatening to throw away his cigarettes or destroy his guitar. Lister had stopped winding him up, stopped trying to replace him with Kochanski's disk. Of course  Rimmer still drove him up the wall, with his Risk stories and his fictional sexual conquests and his stupid smegging medals but there was no real hate behind it anymore and he's not quite sure when that happened, couldn't put it down to a day or even a week but he knows, over time, their fractious relationship had mellowed out into something else.

Lister, in a way, almost prefers it the way it was before. At least he knew where he stood; he was Rimmer’s arch-rival, the living embodiment of everything the second technician despised in a person. Now though he was in some sort of nebulous zone between friend and bunkmate.

Yeah, it's an easier life, but it confuses the hell out of him.

 

iv.

Rimmer gets his hard-light bee from Legion and the first thing he touches is Lister.

It's an accident. He's not thinking. He's just acting on impulse: these are all the things he tells himelf later, when the full weight of it lands on him much later, as he lies in bed. In that moment though, all he'd known was that he'd finally been granted the one wish he'd spent the last few years hoping and praying for: the gift of touch. Lister had been stood right there beside him in his leather waist coat jacket and Rimmer had craved to know what it felt like.

So, he acted -  and that was that.

It wasn't as though anybody but him had cared. Lister has just been happy for him. Rimmer knows it's all in his head.

He tries to bury it, tells himself that if it had been Cat or Kryten, he would've reacted in the same way; that a mix of convenience and curiosity had gotten the better of him. He almost believes it too, except that night his traitorous subconscious betrays him and he dreams of leather waist coats with custom patches.

 

v.

Rimmer leaves to become Ace and Lister encourages him – in fact, Lister practically sees him out of the door.

Of course, he’s upset. Like it or not, Rimmer had become a major part of his life – it was natural to, well, miss him, and the ship seemed a lot emptier without Rimmer's ego and neuroses clogging up the place. He tries not to dwell on it really, there's nothing he can do about it now – and besides Rimmer's probably out slaying monsters and saving damsels, not thinking about _Red Dwarf_.

Then Kochanski arrives and the crew gains a new member, he thinks perhaps that'll take his mind off it – having Kochanski there, the girl of his dreams and that. For a while it does. But then he dreams about a not-quite Rimmer with a genial smile and golden curls.

He's not stupid enough to think it actually _means_ anything–  he knows perfectly well that this was just his subconcious telling him that he missed Rimmer – the fact that it manifested itself _like that_ wasn't indicative of anything, and to think anything else would be stupid.

But.

_But._

In the end, he goes on the stupid ride and is crudely reminded of who Rimmer _really_ was, not that doe eyed romanticised version of him that had turned up and snogged Lister in his dream, and that's that.

Except it isn't.

The dreams keep coming. Sometimes it's like the kissing one, only they go further and Lister wakes up, skin burning and a heavy feeling in his stomach. Other times they're harmless, mild things. They're in their bunkbeads arguing with one another, or they're sitting around their table playing a game of Risk that seemed to go on forever, or even, on one memorable instance, they're sitting on the swings together back in the local park of Lister's hometown.

Each time though, he wakes up and remembers and it's like watching Rimmer go all over again.

vi.

Lister rouses at about eleven in the morning, rolls his neck and sits up. He'd slept uncomfortably, the sound of an engine rumbling in his dream, he frowns for a couple of moments before jumping down from the top-bunk and going to brush his teeth.

He could've sworn, though, that the noise of the engine was familiar, he thinks as he washes his face. It lingers with him and he stares at his reflection in the mirror trying to capture the remainder of his dream.

 _Gone._ He shrugs.

First port of call is breakfast; blearily he drags himself down to the kitchen where's he's greeted by the faces of Cat and Kryten and – _Rimmer_?

Lister blinks. It's definitely Rimmer – Ace Rimmer, _his_ Rimmer, standing in the middle of the room mirroring his own stricken expression back at him. Ace Rimmer, he thinks dazedly, is supposed to be off in other universes playing the hero – what the hell he is doing here, in _Red Dwarf_ , in the kitchen?

“Sir I was just about to wake you,” says Kryten, sheepishly.

Lister ignores him, taking a hesitant step forward before stopping himself and staring plaintively at the figure in front him, donned in the silver shiny suit and the ridiculous blonde wig. “Rimmer man, is that you?”

“Told you I'd be back for breakfast,” comes the trademark Ace drawl before the Rimmer's familiar nasal voice rings out. “Oh sod it, yes it's me.”

“Goal-post Head?” the Cat stares between Lister and Rimmer. “I thought he – you - were dead?”

“I lied,” Rimmer says bluntly. “Look do you think we could talk about this later? It's just that it's a very long story and I've just dodged three smegging simulant warships to get here.”

*

To the Cat and Kryten's credit, they take the whole business very well to say they've been lied to for the past four years. Cat, once he's realised that the super slick Ace was just ordinary Arnie J in disguise reverts to his usual disdain for him, but he still listens to the stories Rimmer recounts over lunch. They are – to Rimmer's credit – amazing stories, no doubt exaggerated as per Rimmer style, but that's to be expected, Lister thinks. The Cat and Kryten make a receptive audience, asking all the right questions, looking impressed despite themselves. Lister, though, is uncharacteristically quiet, mostly shoving his fork around his plate of prawn masala, appetite gone.

He excuses himself after an hour. The cool air is welcome as he makes his way back to his quarters. He's running away – strictly speaking – and it's not something that he's particularly proud of. He'd always thought that he was the sort to stand and face his problems, and he is. It's just that it had all become a bit overwhelming, a tightness had formed in his stomach on seeing Rimmer in the kitchen and it only grew as time passed, knotting up his insides and shredding his nerves. He's not exactly sure what it is he's afraid of, this is what he wanted after all - it'd been what he wanted the moment he watched Rimmer leave as Ace all those years ago.

The door slides shut behind him as he enters his room, and he leans against the wall. _And now that Rimmer was here_? He couldn't stop that anxious voice in the back of his head, telling him that this was all temporary. Things like this just didn't happen.

“I'm not interrupting, am I?” Rimmer's voice comes from somewhere behind him. The wig, Lister notes is gone, revealing the mop of curly brown hair underneath and the silver H back in place on his forehead.

He looks the same.

Lister turns away to stare at the wall.

“Nah, you're alright.”

“You left,” says Rimmer.

Lister runs a hand through his locs. “Needed a bit of air, if I'm telling the truth. Bit of a shock, you know.”

“Yes,” Rimmer agrees. “I should probably think it is.”

“Not that I'm complainin' or anything,” says Lister, finally turning to look at the hologram. “Rimmer, how come you came back? I thought you were gone for good.”

Rimmer blinks. “I told you I was coming back, didn't I?”

“I didn't think you were serious,” says Lister. “Not that I'm not happy about it, it's just that – well, I wasn't holding out any hope, that's all. Not after the first couple of years anyway.”

Rimmer raises his eyebrows at that. “Lister, you were the one that told me to go, remember?”

“Yeah, course I do,” Lister shifts uncomfortably. “I thought it would be a good move for you – becoming a hero and that. That's what you wanted, but -” He cuts himself off self-consciously, all too aware of Rimmer watching him, his expression unreadable.

“Are you stayin'?” he bites out after a minute or two.

“Should I?” Rimmer fires back, his voice carefully blank. “You tell me.”

Lister struggles. An impasse.

“For God’s sake, Listy,” says Rimmer, as he takes a step towards him. “Do me a favour: think about yourself for once.”

Lister has about half a second of realisation – then he’s being pressed into the wall and Rimmer is mouthing at his jaw.

If Rimmer registers his shock, he doesn’t mention it – in fact Rimmer seems to be doing his best to render them both entirely speechless. He’d never imagined Rimmer would be like this - never even dreamt about it, not ever. It’s a far cry from those dreams he’d had, of shy, gentle kisses. Rimmer is solid, brash, almost aggressive. Maybe all those years spent as Ace had done wonders for his confidence, maybe it was sheer desperation - God, he doesn’t care. Not when Rimmer’s shoving his jacket off and steering him both to the bottom bunk and sucking bruising kisses down his neck.

It’s going to be over too quickly - Lister knows it as soon as Rimmer slides his leg around his, aligning them together just _so_. And then there’s so much heat, and so much friction, and Rimmer’s hand down the front of his leather trousers – and _Christ_. His head falls back against the pillow, arm draped over his forehead as if he’s trying to shield himself - but Rimmer’s mouth is next to his ear whispering words over and over again just at the edge of his hearing, words like “miss” and “you” and “please” and it’s too much, he can’t cope. He’s probably being too loud, but he doesn’t care, especially not when Rimmer’s looking at him like that, eyes so dark they’re almost black. It’s worth it - Lister thinks - all this time spent waiting, just for _that_ look.

vii.

“So,” Lister says, a little while later.

He’s lying in bed, smoking a cigarette, watching Rimmer who’s sitting at the edge of the bed in silence.

He’s been sat like that for a while.

Then Rimmer gets up, slowly and deliberately, picks up the blonde wig lying on the cabinet and throws it in the bin.

“Holly, my old uniform please.”

“No worries, Arn,” comes the reply, and in an instant, the blue uniform is replaced by familiar, beige tones - Lister could’ve cried.

“Rimmer,” he says eventually, voice strangely hoarse. “What are you doing?”

The reply carries the usual note of distaste, but his expression is softer. “What do you think I’m doing, smeg for brains?”

 


End file.
